“History so often fails to record the grit of the little ponies on whose backs it was written. I’m trying to change that.”
- “Memoirs of the Equestrian Silver Age”, by Carnelian
Even when it had been a bustling country town, you couldn’t have called Southoofton truly busy even on the best of days.
On the morning of Harvest Moon, or the eve of Hearth’s Warming, you almost could have called the town crowded, but even then it didn’t come close to an average day at the markets in Manehattan.
Once, years ago, Pa had taken her down to the city after the harvest had been finished, to the government offices so that their stores of grain could be properly counted. Everything was just so big in the city, from the vast market squares to the towers that lined the streets. Everypony was always in a hurry, too, a rush that echoed on the cobbles of the streets like a continuous rumble of thunder.
She much preferred the quiet of the little country town, made all the more little as the months of this year had dragged on. There were only a handful of structures around Southoofton’s single square, and while Sycamore had always felt the place was merely cozy, today forlorn was increasingly becoming the right word.
Standing now on the low hill that separated her family’s estate from the town square proper, Sycamore considered where she ought to go to get some answers to her questions. At this time of day, there would probably be a small crowd at Linseed’s little eatery. Mostly the elder ponies who had retired from the fields and had nothing better to do than gossip. But Sycamore decided to try the General Store first. Nearly everypony in town went through there at least a few times a week, in addition to the traveling traders that came around to restock the shelves. Golden, the pony in charge of the place, always kept one ear to the ground, so it was a safe bet that he would at least have something to say on the matter.
A rusty bell jangled as she pushed open the thin door into the Store, and again as she hurriedly closed it. The day was mostly calm outside, but gusts of wind came on unexpectedly these days, and Golden certainly wouldn’t appreciate getting a blast of dust on his products. The stallion himself was busy stacking crates behind his counter, the sunlight coming in through the shop window making the mane that was his namesake gleam like a mirror. He looked up right away when he heard the bell, and ambled back to the counter in time to meet her there. “Ms. Sycamore!” he exclaimed with a hint of excitement. “What a pleasure to see you this afternoon. What can I get for you?”
“The same pleasure, Mr. Golden,” she returned, giving him a smile. “We’re doing just fine at the farm, though perhaps before I go I’ll think of something we could use. Any news?”
Golden chuckled. He was only barely into his middle years, his face still smooth and handsome and his mane still full. “The wind keeps on blowing, the Sun keeps on shining, and ponies do keep on talking at that. For the last day or so, though, the talk around has been that I should be the one asking you the questions.”
That wasn’t particularly surprising. Wind’s entrance hadn’t exactly been discreet. “So soon?”
He shrugged. “There’s no keeping any secrets in a town this small, is there? So, who is he?”
Sycamore paused, formulating an answer that didn’t give too much away. “No idea, actually. It seems like he might have knocked his head around a little bit.”
“Understandable.” Golden looked disappointed. “How long until he’ll be off on his way?”
She tapped her hoof on the counter a few times before answering, to think. “That depends on a few things, actually. Probably around a month, though, if I had to guess.”
“A month? It’ll be that long before he’s got himself sorted out? How do you figure?”
Sycamore gritted her teeth. She had been hoping to come at the topic of her questions in a more subtle way, somehow, though how exactly was something that she hadn’t really considered yet. In any case, she knew that she had to ask now. “You ever heard of Cloudsdale, Golden?”
“Well, of course,” he replied, puzzled. “The Old Lady used to ramble about it every night before we went to sleep. Magical city in the sky where the pegasi come from or some such. I’ve heard the legend, but what does that have to do with anything?”
She took a look over her shoulder, to confirm that they were alone in the shop, then went on as quietly as possible. “Have you ever heard anypony who believed that the place was actually real? Honest, now.”
The stallion was silent for a moment, looking at her blankly, then he nodded a couple of times. “He really did have quite a fall, didn’t he?”
“Sure did. But for real, I know you talk to whoever comes traveling through. Have you ever heard even an inkling, or a rumour about something similar?”
Golden leaned on the counter with one of his forelegs. “Give me a moment to think on that. On first instinct, I’d say it’s all a load of hooey, but you know there was one time, now that you mention it…”
“Who?” Sycamore tried not to sound overly excited. If Wind was actually telling the truth, it would make dealing with him simultaneously a lot easier and a lot more complicated. But she really did want to believe that he did have his senses about him.
“It was some months ago,” Golden continued, staring off out of his shop window as he thought. “That’s right! The Old Lady herself found her way to my door! Here to buy, uh, what was she on after? Honey, I think.”
She gave him a perplexed look. There were several elder mares around Southoofton, but there was only one Old Lady.
Amber Waves was as old as the hills, and local legend said that it was her clan that first settled in the area. But she was also the matron of Golden’s family, so the fact that she had come in to see her grandson’s business didn’t seem particularly unusual. And Sycamore wasn’t exactly keen on being played with.
“What are you on about, Golden? This had better get somewhere useful.”
He brushed her hoof off of the counter quickly. “Just give me a moment to think, will you? She said something. She said ‘I’m going to find us rain even if I have to climb up to Cloudsdale myself and haul the Master down here by the tail!’” He gave her a triumphant look. “That’s the last I ever heard anypony talk about it.”
“Inspiring,” she noted, utterly devoid of amusement. “So as far as you can tell me, it’s all a load of hooey?”
“Far as I go, yeah. But if you’re really interested on the subject, maybe make the trek up to the Old Lady’s place yourself. I’m sure that she’ll appreciate having you, and detain you for an hour or two to spin her tale.” He took another glance out of the window, and then started. “Boy, I didn’t think that it had gotten that late. I hope you won’t mind if I ignore you for a moment. Unless you’ve thought of something to buy for yourself, that is?”
She let him go with a flick of her hoof. “We just need a new roof is all. But I imagine that Fern will have already found his way to Sassafras by now.” Sassafras was one of Golden’s dozen siblings, the operator of a modest kiln on his own estate. “But I expect that I’ll be back around for news sooner rather than later, right?”
Golden was already at work shifting around a few pallets of equipment in the rear of the store. “Sooner, I hope!” he called back. “I don’t expect anypony to be placated by what little news you’ve given me concerning your guest. Soon enough they’ll be banging on your door just to get a look at him.” He was drowned out on the end by a clatter of what sounded like falling metal.
Sycamore instinctively considered jumping back there and offering him a hoof, but it was his store, after all, and she had more business to see to now. The Old Lady’s estate was about a twenty minute trot from the other side of Southoofton, and Golden was right. There was no such thing as a short storytelling session once she got to reminiscing.
It was almost enough to make her think that maybe she ought to be heading back to the farmhouse instead. Sassafras wouldn’t be able to get them a new batch of tiles today, but even then there was more cleanup work to be done in the yard, especially with regard to the furrow that Wind had ploughed up, and Pa would definitely want some help with that.
Ultimately, Amber wasn’t going anywhere, but then Wind wasn’t either. And something about that innocent, earnest look in those bright eyes of his told her that this was not a stallion who had lost his marbles. Fern and Pa could get by, and surely they’d appreciate knowing what to do with their guest. With that decided, Sycamore took one last look about the Store to make sure that she wasn’t forgetting something they sorely needed, and then set off south, along the rough, dusty trail that led over the hill to the Old Lady’s place.
By now the Sun had risen to its peak in the sky, and even sun-hardened as Sycamore was, it was still a relentless weight upon her as she walked. In the few stands of trees that she passed she could hear the occasional birds’ songs, but not a single one flew overhead. Besides them the only sound of the afternoon was the occasional whisper of the dry wind.
Here in the thick of pasture and field, with harvest just around the corner, the air should have been filled with sound: the sound of hired hooves sharpening scythes or cleaning up the threshing floors in excited anticipation. By the time that she got to the corner of Amber’s lane and first heard the echoes of angry voices from the estate, it was a relief to have the silence broken.
The trail ended right here, at the mouth of Amber’s estate, capped by a pleasant arch of stained lumber. On the other side of it, the path continued, bisecting a garden big enough to almost be considered a field in its own right, with the main exception this year being that there were actually things growing in it. Not exactly prize produce of course, but Amber had managed to coax at least a few stunted tomato vines and some withered carrots out of the soil. There were even the beginnings of some small pumpkins growing there.
On through the garden, the path climbed up a low hill as it approached the estate house, a grand two-storey structure that once upon a time had housed Golden and all of the rest of his generation. Nowadays, the Old Lady had it all to herself, but even so she kept it in good condition. It even looked like she’d managed to put on a whole new coat of paint this summer. Over the top of the hill, a few bright strips of red wood marked the tops of the livestock pens, as well as the sheds that held all of the rest of the estate’s equipment.
The shouting was coming from in front of the house, where Sycamore could see Amber standing up on her front porch, the full locks of her white mane tied up into a tight bun behind her head. She was staring down a grey stallion wearing a trim straw hat, his sideburns growing out from under it down to his neck. Even from the road, Sycamore had no problem identifying him, and the realization sent a flutter of nerves into her stomach.
Cottonseed was the other big farmer around town, and with his brother Linseed in charge of the tavern and Sesame running the wheelwright’s shop, Cotton’s was a respected face, the only other pony in the area with anywhere near the clout that Amber held. It was also known that he and Amber didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye, and that was putting it mildly. Rumour had it that this spring they had nearly come to blows over a well that she said he had dug on her land. If these two were having a heated discussion, then Sycamore wanted no part in it. But she couldn’t really stand at the end of the lane just hoping that she wouldn’t get noticed, so instead she tried to take as much time as she could on the approach. Just as she was getting to the inside edge of the garden, their voices got clear enough to be discernible.
“By the stars, woman, somepony ought to remind you that you don’t own this whole town even if your great-great-grand-pappy had a hoof in laying it down!” Cotton’s voice was a gravelly twang that cut through the dry air like a whip. “One of these days you’re going to realize that you need the little folk, and we ain’t going to be around to help.”
“Pardon my intrusion, then!” Amber answered, her anger accentuating the lilt of her own accent. “I’ve made no secret of my intentions to gather what hay I can from the meadows, and if I have any extra I will gladly sell it on to ye.”
“Extortion, then, is it? That feed shouldn’t be costing me anything, save the work I would have put in gathering it up. That meadow belongs to me, and so should everything growing on it!”
Amber snorted at the stallion's retort. “If ye wanted it, ye could have gotten it first. I told ye last month that I intended on taking that feed.”
“And I told you that if you did, this would be the result!” He took a measured step forward, and Sycamore saw Amber tense up a little herself. “I thought I had made it clear to you that no matter what you may desire, I am making it through this winter, Amber. If there is going to be any solace in this Light-forsaken weather, I would hope that it’d be you finally deciding to call it quits.”
“So ye can snap up all of my land and have the whole town to ye’self?” She gave him a triumphant grin as he grit his teeth in anger. “Don’t think I don’t know the way that ye think. Ye wouldn’t even be the first stallion to try it. But this farm tended my Old Mare, and her Old Mare too, and it’s going to be one of my kin that gets it next, once my time here is done. So see to your own stock, why don’t ye, Mr. Cotton?”
Sycamore had reached the foot of the hill that rose up to support the house, and couldn’t really get any closer without intruding on the conversation. Thankfully, Cotton seemed to have run out of things to say, and so after another moment or so of tension, within which he was probably giving Amber the evil eye, the stallion pulled his hat down and turned around to leave.
Seeing Sycamore, who by this point was standing only about ten feet behind him, he scowled. “Thought you’d take a listen, Ms. Sycamore?” he growled. “Way I hear it, you ought to be minding after your own stock, too.” Without giving her a chance to reply, he trotted past down the lane.
“That old coot and his clan will be the death of me, one of these days,” Amber muttered quietly, stepping lightly down onto the ground and waving Sycamore over. “Nice to see you, Missy. What brings ye to my doorstep?”
Sycamore briefly considered finding out a bit more about what had Cotton in such a huff, but Amber clearly saw it on her face. “I surely hope that ye pay no mind to that clown. Often enough these days it seems like Cotton’s got nothing better to do than find somepony to be mad at. And more often than not that’s me. But I’ve had enough of thinking of what he’s on about.” She shielded her eyes with a hoof and looked up at the sky. “It’s about time for a spot of tea, I’d say. Perhaps ye’d join me for that, and we can talk out from under this heat.”
Not wanting to push the issue, Sycamore nodded eagerly. “That would do just fine. Thank you.” The walk from the town wouldn’t usually have been strenuous at all, but the Sun in the sky seemed to have sapped all of the energy out of her limbs.
The ceilings of Amber’s house were high and airy, clean white boards held up by sturdy posts every few yards. The house had been built up over the years, once being not much bigger than Sycamore’s own little cottage. Somewhere, under the kitchen, the original root cellar was still accessible by a trapdoor just like every other house, but Sycamore still felt small standing in the entrance hall. The feeling was helped a bit by the towering stacks of odds and ends that dominated the floor space.
There were big buckets for carrying water and mixing soaps, boxes filled with boots of all sizes and descriptions, and trunks of saws, hammers, and other carpentry tools all standing beside each other. When Amber led her on through the hall, it felt a lot like walking through a tall cornfield, each turn hidden by the piles of miscellany.
“I know I really ought to get to cleaning up the place,” Amber muttered over her shoulder as she shoved a few metal basins out of the way to create some room. “But I know that as soon as I file something away or throw something out, I’ll be in want of it the very next afternoon!”
She pulled open a door at the far end of the hall, or at least she pulled it as far as it would go, which was enough to squeeze through if Sycamore held her breath, and then the two of them were into the kitchen. The windows here looked out onto the back of the estate, but their blinds were drawn down tight right now, making the room actually somewhat dim.
Amber indicated a couple of finely carved rockers that sat near the big stone hearth. “Settle ye’self right over there if ye please, Ms. Sycamore. I’ll have that tea in a heartbeat.”
“Thanks again,” Sycamore returned. Notwithstanding the darkness, the air in the room was comfortably cool, and a chance to get off of her hooves really did strike her as a good idea at the moment. Once she had sat down, Sycamore breathed a sigh of relief. “That produce of yours looks mighty fine, Amber.”
The old earth pony was rummaging in the cupboard. “Don’t flatter me now,” she said. “It’s a sorry excuse for a garden is what it is. If my Old Mare had been here to see it, she’d have me mucking the pens on my own all winter.” She pulled out a couple of pewter mugs, and then to Sycamore’s delight she scooped a chunk of ice each from up out of the icebox. A jar of sweet tea followed, until finally Amber pulled up her own chair in front of the hearth and offered Sycamore the ice-cold mug.
“I would say that there ain’t nothing like a glass of sweet tea to relax the soul after time spent out in this weather,” Amber said, taking a deep drink out of her mug, “but the truth is that I ain’t never seen any summer as bad as this one, so I couldn’t tell ye how useful this drink will be. But I think that it does me just fine.”
“Just fine, I think,” Sycamore agreed. Just one sip of the tea had already taken away the fog from the front of her mind, though the ice was melting quickly. Normally, she’d make some small talk here, asking about how the crop was progressing, but that conversation had already been had dozens of times. Everypony in Southoofton knew the words by heart. “I was at Golden’s shop just before I came over here, you know.”
Taking another sip of her tea, Amber leaned back in her chair. “Bartering information? Everypony that’s stopped by has been asking about you non-stop, you know.” She left it there, without asking the natural question. Even so, it hung in the air between them anyway, just as it had with Golden earlier. The difference was that this time Sycamore knew that she was here to share.
“Well, to be honest, Amber, we’ve got ourselves a little bit of a problem with this fellow,” she began, mentally laying out what she was going to say. “He calls himself Wind, which I suppose is a proper name for a pegasus, all things considered. But he swears up and down that he’s actually from Cloudsdale of all places. Won’t take no for an answer on that one.” She kept her eyes steady on Amber’s, watchful for the old mare’s reaction. Her eyebrows went up at the mention of the mythical city, but no more than that.
“Is that right?” Amber asked absently, taking another sip of her tea. “And I suppose that Golden let you know that I might have something to say on the matter.”
“Well, rightly, he said that he thought it was all a load of hooey. And everypony else surely agrees with him, as I would too.” And she would, at that. Sycamore realized that a very good-sized chunk of her heart was hoping Amber would say the same thing, even if that would mean coming out here wouldn’t have accomplished anything. But even so, she had to know. “But this Wind doesn’t strike me as not knowing what he’s talking about and he’s sticking to his story no matter what. So if you do have any input on the subject, I’d very much appreciate hearing about it.”
Amber finished off her mug in one big gulp and thought for a moment. “Huh. Well, I hope you didn’t come here expecting a long story, because there actually isn’t that much to this one. In any event, this comes straight from the mouth of my Old Mare, back when I wasn’t even much older than you are now. And I don’t think I have to tell you that times were a little different that long ago. There was actually rain falling for one thing.
“My Old Mare was living around the same spot, heck, she might even have been sitting in the same chair as you, listening to her Old Mare tell the story right where I’m sitting now.”
“Hold up,” Sycamore tapped a hoof skeptically against her mug. “Your grandmother’s grandmother told this story off of the start?”
For an instant Amber lost her place, then turned back to face Sycamore. “Well, we are talking about centuries here, Ms. Sycamore. Now, don’t interrupt me, please. Even she hadn’t been around for the time when Cloudsdale was a place anypony could get to, but she knew it was a real place. And without all that drivel about the ice and the rainbows and such. An honest-to-goodness city, up in the sky, where some pegasi dwelt. Not where they came from, mind you,” she pointed almost accusingly at Sycamore, “just a few living up there cause they chose to. And it sure does sound like a nice spot to live in, then, doesn’t it?”
“Hm, maybe,” Sycamore admitted, mulling over such an idea. “But then why did it disappear from all of our memories?”
“I’m getting to that. See, back in those days there was a fair amount of trade between farmers like us and those fellows up in the sky. Those pegasi couldn’t grow their own food after all. They bought everything they needed from us, and they helped us out with our weather in the meantime too. Though, I don’t think even some of them would have been able to deal with the matter we’re looking at right now.
“Those were friendly times for the most part, see. Like how they was supposed to be, as my Old Mare liked to say. Anyway, the way she told it, there wasn’t much of a story to it at all. One year, them Cloudsdale ponies stopped showing up to buy their way, and nopony’s heard from them since. Oh, we looked after them for a while, mind you.” Again with the pointed hoof. “After all, without any of our food, how were they going to survive? But nopony could find hide nor feather of them. It was almost as if they had just up and disappeared. And that’s really all that there is to it. Not very surprising that folks stopped believing, is it?”
Sycamore leaned back into the chair, thinking for a moment as Amber got up to see about her next mug of tea. How much of that story was history, and how much was a proper old mare’s tale, distorted by generations worth of retelling? It wasn’t that hard to believe, really, although that ending was a real mystery. Not surprising at all that anypony thought it was nothing but fantasy. But then again, now she had evidence that it wasn’t.
“Wind said that they figured it out.”
“Hmmm?” Amber spilled a couple drops from the jar as her head came up. “Figured out what, now?”
Sycamore got up to retrieve a rag from the sink. “How to grow their own food. Apparently, they’ve got fields of beans up there now, or so goes the way he tells it.”
“Beans, eh?” Sycamore recognized the look on her face. It was the very same one that she had gotten from Fern earlier. “Now that is just plain nonsense. The only good that a pegasus can ever do for a field is offer it some water every now and then, and if beans could grow out of the river then we’d be off to the riverbank like that then wouldn’t we?” She chuckled to herself after taking a sip from her new mug. “Even so, maybe I’d like to meet this fellow of yours some time. Eventually he’ll be around the town, right?”
“I’d expect so.” Wind wouldn’t be able to fly for a long time yet, but it wouldn’t be long before he could walk at least. Provided he was still around and not sent home with his Equestrian family by then. “I’ll be sure to let him know that.”
Sycamore glanced over at the window, and while she couldn’t see outside at all, the light on the blind was still plenty bright. Even so, Pa would definitely be wanting her back at the farm soon. She eyed the half-full jar of tea that was sitting on the table, wondering if it would be right to take some for the road.
“Ah, heavens, girl, take it if you want,” Amber said, ambling back over to the hearth to sit down again. “My preserves ain’t quite what they used to be, but it’s a real scorcher out there for sure. I wouldn’t want you burning up on the way back to your own place.”
Sycamore bobbed her an earnest thanks, not just for the tea, of course, but for everything. As she made her way back out the front door and started down the lane, she let the story run through her head again. At the end of the day, it still came down to how far she wanted to trust Wind, and that was the part that she was still unsure on.
In one world, he was right, and that meant there was a whole city of pegasi up there somewhere, and a healthy crop of beans too. In another, Fern was the right one, and sooner or later Wind would get himself in order and they’d go back to the usual life of the past year. She didn’t have any idea which one she actually thought was true, but at least there was no doubt in Sycamore’s mind which one she wanted to believe in.